


Allegiance

by Maritrar



Series: Your own path [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maritrar/pseuds/Maritrar
Summary: A little fluff and some smut first, then some plot and eventually some more fluff.





	Allegiance

# Allegiance

You wake when the bleak light of a late autumn dawn filters through the curtains. The air is chilly, but the lips pressed to the nape of your neck are warm.

“I need te’ get up, love.” Shay murmurs against your skin.  “Ye’r relieved from duty til’ further notice, so ye can go back to sleep. Just didn’t want ye’ to wake and find me gone.”

You arch your back in a lazy stretch, earning a muffled groan as you press against his warmth. His palm shifts from the loose embrace, skims over your stomach to cup a breast. Your tired yawn stretches into a slow smile as you settle back against him, roll further into his embrace and steal a kiss over your shoulder. His lips meet yours, slow and pliant. An early morning kiss with the calm of sleep still coloring your heartbeats.

He pulls away, regarding you a moment while he palms your breast through the thin cloth of your shift, the grip molded to the soft flesh tightening as his gaze shifts there.

“God, I love your breasts,” he says before alternating to the other, giving it the same treatment. You sigh contentedly and close your eyes, curving your spine just a bit to give him better access. He chuckles humoredly to himself before you feel his weight shift and the scruff of his chin brushes your jaw.

A thrill runs down your spine as his lips press to your neck, and you turn your head to better accommodate him. Shay obliges, presses slow kisses into your sensitive flesh that sinks beneath your skin and trickles down your spine.

“I thought ye’d like to sleep some more,” he mutters, while his hand stills on your chest.

You’re sated and warm and you could go back to sleep, but you’re not tired. The covers are warm and soft and you relish staying here within his arms, enjoying his attentions. Therefore you just give him another contented sigh that lifts your chest, knowing very well it will shift his attention back there.

He huffs a short laugh and you can sense the smile he wears.

“No?” he says, “somethin’ else ye’ want then?” 

Your lips stretch in a smile as you feel his weight shift behind you, his other arm sneaking under you and around your waist, pressing your lower half against him. The gentle caress of your breast turns firmer, kneading with another sort of intent that makes heat gather between your thighs.

Your breath hitches as his fingers sweeps the tip of a perking nipple. Behind you, Shay groans. His hand sinks between your thigs, pressing the shift to your sex. He is impossibly warm, the broad planes of his fingers rubbing slow deliberate circles into your skin.

“Gods, Lass. I really should get goin’,” he says, but his fingers continue and god is he good at this. You really don’t want him to go and so you breathe a quiet moan and press your rear against his groin. A ragged breath exhales against your neck, then his arms tighten around you, shifting your weight atop him. Your gut flips excitedly at being manhandled like this. You lift your arm, press your hand to his neck driving your fingers into his hair appreciatively as his lips finds your neck. It’s hard to reciprocate his attention in this position, but Shay doesn’t seem to mind.

He shifts your legs either side of his own, pulls your shift as he draws his knees up, spreading you wide open atop him. Then his fingers skims over the dip of your stomach, idles with teasing pulls of your skin atop your pubic bone. Your heartrate picks up, your breath running shallow as he teases. You want his touch and he knows this, and yet he lingers.

“Shay…” you breathe.

“Good morning, lass,” he murmurs, and his voice rumbles low and sultry in his chest. Your gut flips at that voice and then his fingers sink between your plush lips. Two fingers sliding purposefully down to gather the slick and draw it across your skin. It doesn’t take much; you are wet with newfound want and your activities of last night and within a couple of turns your supple skin is slick with moist as he makes your blood sings with rising pleasure.

Your moans start filling the air, stifled and repressed in awareness of where you are. You don’t know who else is in this house or how thick the walls are and you don’t want anyone to hear you.

That task is turning harder though, as Shay’s thick fingers sinks into your warmth. The pleasure is coursing through your veins, throbbing in your core as his fingers ambles within you, but nothing can replace the fullness of his cock. You can feel the hardness of it pressing against your backside through his breeches and you’re hungry to feel that hard, velvety shaft.

“I want you inside me, Shay,” you plead.

He groans underneath you, throws a glance over his shoulder at the rising light outside.

“I really don’t have the time, lass,” he says.

You are boiling underneath the covers, the warmth of his body and the fire he lights inside you too much. Overcome with want, you throw the cowers off and move against his hand to gain some more friction. The strong body underneath you tenses. He raises his pelvis, lifting you along with him and looks down the length of your prone body. The supple flesh between your thighs shine pink and wet in the low morning light as his fingers slips from your core, sliding between your folds and spreading you open. Shay groans, and underneath you, you can feel him harden. With a thrumming heart you sense his resolve faltering.

“Oh, fuck it,” he groans. His fingers slip from your flesh and then he gives your thigh a sharp smack. “Up on all fours,” he instructs. You happily comply, rolling to your side as he starts to unlace his breeches with sharp movements.

You sit on your knees and watch his hurried undressing, the ripple of muscles across his chest even in this little undertaking. There is an enticing trail of dark hairs leading your gaze down. He pulls the garment open, his cock springing free as he draws the breeches down his hips.

He is gorgeous, lean muscle tapering down to the hardened member. You feast your eyes on him, then raise your gaze to find his eyes, dark with hunger and sparking of mischief.

“Ye’ll be the death of me, ye know,” he says as you brace on your forearms and present yourself to him with a sultry smile across your shoulder.

He nudges your legs apart, standing on his knees between your open legs, splaying warm hands across your cheeks spreading you open. You rest your head against your forearms and moan into the bedding as his erection slides between your folds, little jolts of heat running through you when he nudges your clit along the way as he coats himself in your fluids. Your thigs tremble in hard kept patience, as he slides back and forth a few times before the head of his erection settles against your opening.

He is thick and hard, and he always feels bigger this way. You can’t help but throw your head back when he sinks into your waiting flesh, the slight stretch a marvelous fullness your body craves.

Shay grunts in appreciation and starts to move, creating the friction you so relish. Your nerve-endings sing with each thrust, with each lewd smack of skin meeting skin and you know he’ll push you over the edge in no time. Your walls are soon fluttering around him, all you need is his fingers between your legs to drive you over the edge when he leans over covering your back with his warmth.

“I want ye’ te’ wait for me, lass,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you with him as he sits back on his hunches. You’re wrapped in his strong arms as he draws you to him, bounces you in his lap. He’s rocking deep within you, the fullness of it sending thrills down your spine, but you won’t come this way. He knows this and keeps you tethered to him, strung along as he slides within you.

He kisses your neck, his hands holding you to him pressing into your chest and stomach every time he trusts, drawing you down upon him. You grip his arm, dig your fingers into his hair and do your best to hang on while he catches up. The hand on your stomach sinks lower with each thrust, until the tips of his fingers put pressure over your clit every time he plunges into you, and your core starts singing.

Soon you need to come, your body a tight spring of pent up energy.

“Shay-“ you plead. “ _Oh, Shay… please!”_

“Not yet,” he says. The hold he keeps you in tightens as you start to writ in his lap. Your insides are starting to flutter, the muscles trembling in pending release as he keeps you there. Knows your climax will build and does what he can to delay.

You keen in wordless desperation to come and Shay mutters gratified words of how wet and tight you are. Pressing his lips to your neck briefly, he tips you forward, grips your hip tightly for leverage and plunges into your willing body. Suddenly he’s hitting all the right spots within you. Your core bursts with pleasure as you come in a rush of fire. You arch your back splaying yourself open while ripples of heat blasts through you with each push into your keen body. His movements grow more and more erratic, faltering in pleasure as your core grips his shaft in an intensely enjoyable sensation for the both of you. He gives you a few last fervent thrusts that whites out your senses, then buries himself to the hilt, his cock twitching inside you.

You both sag into the bedding, panting ragged breaths into the chilly air.

“You will be late,” you say after a short while.

“I don’t care,” he says, tightening his arms around you a moment, but releases you and pulls his softening length from your body.  

He gets up, pulls the cover over you, goes to the washstand and rinses the sweat from his skin. You are sated and warm, watching him under hooded lids as he lathers up in preparation for a shave.

There’s a knock on the door and a voice informing that breakfast is served.

Shay curses lowly under his breath, then gives a reply through the door in a more level voice, telling whoever’s delivering the message he’ll be there in five minutes before glancing back at you.

You bite back your amusement at his mock-thundering glare, then continue to appreciate his body as he hurriedly finishes to shave.

It takes him ten minutes to shave and dress, and then he comes over, ready to leave.

“Ge’ back to sleep, love,” he says. “I’ll come and find ye’ later.”

He kisses you sweetly, your mouths molding against each other another moment before he pulls away. With a last peck on your nose, he disappears out the door.

 

You’re left savoring the warmth under the covers and the rising light outside. You’re not in a mind to go back to sleep. Your arm is hurting; leaning your weight on the injured limb might not have been the wisest decision, but in the heat of the moment, you had given it no thought. In the aftermat you pay the penalty, an insistent throb shooting up your arm.

And there’s another issue crowding your thoughts; Shay’s finished inside you twice over the last few hours and that means there is something you need to fix.

You lie in bed staring into the canopy above. The cook took your severed gown last night, and you forgot to empty out the pockets. You need to find that dress and the inconspicuous little piece of folded paper you keep on your person at all times.

Determined you get out of bed, pour fresh water into the washstand after emptying the dirty water in the bucket. You clean yourself up, then brush through your hair, gathering it in an easy bun at your neck. Pulling the hair along the edges of your face, you soften the look, then draw a few strands loose at your temple. Then you hastily dress, lacing the corset yourself with minor difficulty, then putting on the borrowed gown and pinning it shut in the front.

In the morning light, it’s actually a dark brown color. It’s just a bit on the small side, the sleeves are a bit tight, but for now it will do. You give yourself a glance in the mirror checking that you’re proper and then you leave the room.

The hall is rather quiet, but the door across from Shay’s room stands ajar and you can hear a maid rustling about inside as she refills the fire. You close the door gently behind you and walk silently down the hall. The carpet runner softens your step and you meet no one as you move through the house.

Having grown up in a house like this, you easily find your way to the back stairs and make your way into the kitchen. The bustle inside is continuous throughout the day; serving the upstairs rooms and the staff downstairs in between preparations of the different meals and cleaning up afterward.

It smells of fried eggs and bacon, of fresh bread that makes your mouth water as you peep through the door. Cook is busy ordering a couple of girls around, bringing out flour and eggs while another is busy doing dishes over by the sink. At the end of the large table-come-work surface, a footman is hidden behind a paper, his hand resting around a cup of tea. You stay, awaiting a moment of pause to catch the cook’s attention.

After a minute of watching them, you grow tired of waiting and put your knuckles to the doorframe.

Perfectly simultaneous, they lift their eyes at you and pause.

You read wariness, irritation and incredulity in their eyes and the glances that passes between them. Ignoring it, you address the issue that brought you here.

“I’m sorry to disturb, but I wanted to ask where my gown is.”

Cook dries her hands on her apron. Then she catches herself from the initial surprise of your interruption and gives the staff a glare that whips them back into action. The footman disappears out the back as cook crosses the floor to you.

“My lady,” she starts and you shake your head, stopping her before this goes any further.

 “It’s Miss Devon. I’m not a lady.”

Her mouth presses shut a moment and you get the sense she’d like to protest that statement, but eventually thinks better of it and lets it go. Behind her, you catch a few guarded glances of curiosity as the kitchen maids follow your conversation.

“Miss Devon,” she says, “Master Kenway gave orders to have it burned.” She digs her hand into a pocket and pulls out a folded piece of cloth. Within are the silver buttons from your gown and you stare at them perplexed. The gown was damaged, but you doubt the cuts in the fabric were irreparable. Either way the cloth was a good quality and could have been repurposed. Burning the gown seems a bit excessive. You lift your gaze and don’t know what to make of it, but thank her none the less.

She regards you carefully with a frown set on her brow and her hands set on her abundant hips.

“We were instructed not to wake you, miss. I was under the impression you were to stay in bed on Doctor Barton’s orders.”

You meet her gaze and straighten your back unconsciously. This ever-repeating notion that you’re some frail little thing, likely to swoon after a slight bruise.

“Come, now. I merely suffered gash on my arm. Would the maids be allowed to lie bedridden over a small cut?”

She shifts on her feet, disagreeing with you but having a hard time denying your argument. The staff would work from dawn till dusk through most ails. There should be no other standard for you. Still she has a hard time accepting and her countenance burns with unspoken protest.

You think she’ll raise an argument, but then her gaze lifts over your shoulder and you sense another presence at your back.

You turn around and find Yates waiting for your attention. His face is a polished mask of polite indifference as he addresses you.

“Master Kenway wishes to see you, miss Devon,” he says and steps aside, indicating for you to lead the way upstairs. Your motive for coming downstairs is not here; you need to solve it some other way. It’s not the cooks fault the little package is lost and all she’s done is follow her masters orders. You turn back to her before you go, meeting her gaze open and not unfriendly.

“Thank you, miss….”

“It’s Mrs. Andrews,”

“Thank you Mrs. Andrews,” you say and then you turn around to walk in front of Yates up the stairs.

\---

Yates takes you to the Grand master’s office. Master Kenway is seated behind the large desk, a steaming cup of tea set on the side, a stack of missives braced orderly on a serving platter. A small pile of clean sheets is placed beside the smooth, black writing surface and along the top edge a set of quill-stand and inkwell made from shining green jade, carved with a slithering dragon along its base.  Master Kenway folds the letter he is reading and lays it down in front of him as you come to a halt in front of the desk.

You straighten your back as his gray eyes comes to rest on you, his face set in neutral lines.

“Good morning, Miss Devon,” he says.

“Good morning, Sir.”

He is wearing a navy blue ensemble made of a fine broadcloth weave with a deep rich sheen. Along one lapel there is a row of drawn buttons and on the other a row of buttonholes with meandering cording along the edges. The vest is buttoned closed across his chest, the dark color a stark contrast of the white cravat tied around his neck. Immaculate and expensive, yet subtle.

“I thought Shay informed you that you were relieved from duty.” He leans back in the high backed chair, the black gloss of the horsehair upholstery weave shining in the light of the large windows. His arms relaxes atop the armrests, the fingers of his right hand tapping pensively.

“He did, Sir,” you say and meet his gaze, “thank you.”

“Doctor Barton recommended a few days of bedrest,” he says, letting the words trail out leaving the tail loose, not really formulating a question nor giving an instruction, but clearly considering the option.

“Really, Sir, I am all right.” If you just keep from moving your arm too much, the pain is bearable and you need to persuade him. You need to solve your little pickle and to do that you need to go home.

The grand master regards you levelly a few moments.

“Are you sure I cannot persuade you to go back to bed?”

You shake your head determinedly.

“I would like to go home and change into my own clothes.”

You give him a slight smile as you speak and for a moment there’s a light of warmth in his eyes, but when he addresses you again, it’s gone and there is a sense of hardened resolve in his gaze.  

“I am afraid that is out of the question, Miss Devon.”

Uncomprehending, you draw a breath, then halt indecisive and look at him questioningly.

“You will stay here until further notice,” he says and defers from giving you further explanation. You don’t understand why you’re not allowed to leave, why he is making you stay. You wonder if it’s about you being a girl, if he considers you inept to defend yourself after last night or weather there are other reasons for keeping you here.

In the end, it makes no difference. He has given you an order and you’re not at liberty to request an explanation.  You know your place, and the only thing you can do is agree.

“Sir.” You grace him with a resigning nod of acceptance. His mouth stretches in a minute smile while his face remains stoic. Then his focus shifts to the butler.

“Yates, see to her that she gets some breakfast. Then, when she is done eating I want you to escort her back here.”

“Very well, Sir.” The Grand Master regards you coolly as Yates stands aside, indicating for you to lead the way again. You gather your wits about you, acknowledge your superior as decreed then leave the room wondering how on earth you’re going to get out of this quandary.

It’s looking rather dim as Yates follows you down the hall and into the dining room, one of the grand formal rooms where carved rosewood panels lines the lower walls and the upper section is drawn in a rich Italian damask of a woodland green color. It’s a wonderful, light space and airy, with the sun filtering in through eight large windows.

Your eyes are drawn outside as you enter, to the view of the garden outside. You scan the scene for the distinctive silhouette of the architectural plant you need, but instinctively know that you won’t find it here. Grand Master Kenway’s preference runs along ordered lines and symmetry, not the whimsical naturalistic form of the plant you seek. The gardens are as immaculately tailored as the man himself, all cut edges and neat forms. No frilly, natural lines anywhere.

Inwardly you sigh, and is caught unaware. Yates regards your visual search with quiet and guarded interest, and you turn away from the windows, go and take a seat.

Not wanting to bother the kitchens for a warm serving this late in the morning, you request some cheese and bread. The meal arrives promptly with a considerate side of cold cuts and a small pot of tea.

You eat quietly, ignoring the footman and Yates as they perform their duties in mute efficiency.

Yates runs a tight ship.

There’s no dallying among the staff, no gossiping between maids in the corridors, none of the footmen loitering downstairs or by the back door and yet there seems to be a general sense of contentment among the staff.

You lift your gaze fleetingly, watching as the service door opens and a maid enters carrying a tray of crystal glasses. Yates walks over and inspects the glasses while the maid waits, then gives her an appreciative nod and a word of approval. The girl curtsies, and disappears back downstairs as the footman starts loading the crystal into a glass cupboard.

You withdraw your gaze before it’s noticed.

Yates demands a high standard of the staff, but they seem proud to provide the service.

And that might provide the solution to your predicament.

Since everyone are kept busy, you might just be able to sneak off for a few minutes without anyone noticing. You glance outside the large windows, across the garden and the fence lining the street into the plot of land on the other side, where sweeps of gently rolling lawns are set against small groves of trees. A landscape garden of the new informal style. You are pretty sure you’ve seen a few wisps of the flower you seek , the long, slender stems swaying in the slight breeze through the gate there, all but fifty yards down the street.  

You finish your meal without hurry, fold your napkin away before placing your fork and knife together, signaling that you are done. Yates appears by your side and pulls your chair out as you get to your feet.

“All done, Miss Devon?” he inquires and you smile at him.

“Yes, thank you mr. Yates.”

“This way then, Miss,” he says and is on his way to the main doors leading into the house when you halt him.

“Just a moment, if you please. I need to step out to the privy.”

He doesn’t even bat an eyelid at this.

“Of course,” he says and turns towards the service stairs instead, taking you downstairs. There he opens the door to the yard and steps aside.

“I’ll wait here for your return, Miss Devon,” he says, then closes the door as you exit.

You throw a gaze across your shoulder as you cross the yard. There is no one looking out the windows and you quickly steer your course towards the gate. In hurried strides, you reach it unseen, halt momentarily peering outside before slipping onto the street along the general bustle.

Carriages rattle as they roll over the cobbled surface, and the maids on their way out on errands step out to the edge of the road to let them pass. A few delivery-boys hurry by, loaded down by packages. You hurry along with them stretching your neck trying to catch a glimpse of the gate down the street. You pass a group of children, out on a stroll with their nursemaids who have their hands full with reining in the youngsters’ exuberant joy over a stray kitten.  

A fleeting smile crosses your face and then you’re at your goal. The gate of the next manor house and sticking out between the wrought iron bars; the withered flowers of Queen Anne’s lace.

Your hand closes around the first frond, crushing it within your grasp as you send a thought of gratitude towards your nursemaid and the well-kept secret she shared to keep you safe; that a few of these minute seeds each day will prevent a man’s seed from settling in your womb. Information that, both for religious convictions and economic interests could be considered witchery were it to reach the right ears, and you have sworn to tell no one.

Bringing your closed fist into your pocket, you turn around, intent to hurry back inside before anyone notices your absence.

You freeze mid-step as your eyes comes upon a familiar figure leaned against the wall.

Tomas Hickey.

“Mornin’ Miss Devon,” he says and the tone is low and confrontational. You know at once you’re in trouble.

Hickey’s eyes follows you sharply, his brows knit in a stern frown. His hand rests casually on the grip of his gun, but you get the sense it’s more of a precaution than a habit, that he’s ready to draw if the need arises.

His gaze shifts behind you, travels over the garden, searching. Then he regards the street in the same considering way, before his gaze sets back on you.

You’re at a loss for words. There is no explanation you can give him as to why you are here, and he expects none either as he grabs your arm in a tight grip.

“C’mon girl. Let’s get you back,” he says and you resign to follow his lead back to Kenway house.

It’s a long silent walk back to the house, which passes all too quickly while you wonder how you’re going to explain yourself.

You’ve disobeyed direct orders. There is no telling how Grand Master Kenway will react, but you doubt he’ll be impressed. Nor will he be pleased.

You swallow tightly, clenching your fist inside your pocket, keeping the costly price secure as Hickey walks you up the stairs. He halts in front of the oak door leading into the Grand master’s office knocking once and awaiting the call to enter. He regards you coolly a moment, until Master Kenway’s voice sounds from inside. Then he opens the door and leads you inside.

Master Kenway raises his gaze when you enter, a fleeting moment of wonder passing through his eyes as he leans back.

“Hickey,” he says in greeting, his eyes shifting to you and the grip Thomas keeps on your arm. A frown appears on his brow as he lift his grey eyes to you.

“Saw this one amblin’ out the gate as I was making my way upstair’s,” Hickey says. “Thought it odd’ whit what you said las’ night; her staying ‘ere an’ all, and so I followed her.” He lifts his gaze to you and regards you. You shift on your feet, nerves getting the better of you as embarrassed heat creeps up your face. Thomas looks back at the Grand Master.

“She came t’ a halt ou’side the gates of Moore house,” Hickey drawls, “then evi’ently thougt’ better of it, turned aroun’ ter go back here.”

Master Kenway’s gaze lies heavily on you now, flinty and dark and very, very still. You swallow tightly.

“Miss Devon,” he says quietly and the hairs on your neck stand on end as trepidation speeds your heart.

“I-I…” There is no way to explain why you disobeyed him, not without revealing your secret. You don’t know how he’d react, don’t know if he is a religious man, what steps he’d take. Using knowledge like this for good is generally accepted; administering herbs to relieve a cough, or showing the skills needed to help a birthing woman, but preventing the conception of life; terminating it, is quite another.

It’s been sixty years since the last witch-trial in America, but you remember reading the news. There are still women being burned for witch-craft in Europe. Grand Master Kenway is English. Your mouth closes shut.

They both regard you sternly. Sensing you won’t speak, Hickey clears his voice.

“I’ don’t think she left anythin’, but- ” Suddenly, he has seized your arm and drawn your hand from your pocket. You yelp in surprise while Hickey continues, heartedly unaffected.

“-she did take somethin’ with her.”

You blanch as the Grand Master stands, pushing the chair back with a quiet scrape against the floor. His step sounds unfamiliarly heavy as he comes over. Thomas keeps your good arm in a wrench and there’s no point in fighting, but your fist stays soldered shut, even when Kenway’s fingers lace around the back of your hand.

“Come now, let us have it,” he says. There is a will of steel behind those words. He will have what’s in your hand whether you cooperate or not and they know how to make you if you don’t. Also, there’s a good chance they won’t make sense of what you’ve got, you reason. Slowly, you unfurl your fingers.

They stare at the crushed fronds and the little black seeds.

Kenway’s gaze is stormy when he lifts his eyes. By your side, Hickey’s grip on your arm tightens while the grand master picks a blank piece of paper from the pile on his desk, folds it twice and holds it underneath your hand. Hickey makes you tip the content of your palm onto the sheet, brushing every last speck from your skin. You do not dare resist their efforts.

When it’s done they both let you go. Kenway folds the paper closed and tucks it into his pocket. Hickey checks his gun.

“My boys are keepin’ an eye on the grounds,” he says. “If someone’s been there, we’ll know and if not we’ll give it a thorough search. If she left somtin’, we’ll find it.”

“Go on.”

You furrow your brow uncomprehending, looking after Hickey as he leaves before turning back to the Grand Master.

He is following your reaction closely, his eyes cold and hard in a way you’ve never seen before.

“For whom was this intended?” he says, indicating the pocket and his voice has turned to ice.

You stare at him blankly, your mind not able to follow him. What on earth, does he think it is?

“ _Poison hemlock._ Who did you intend to kill? _”_

Your eyes widen in shock, your gut plunging as your mind suddenly scrambles the bits together to form a clear picture.

Queen Anne’s lace is easily confused with poison hemlock. Seeing no reason for your disobedience and given no explanation, they suspect you of betrayal.

“Sir,” you say, your voice sounding shrill in your own ears. “Sir, it isn’t. It’s Queen Ann’s lace. I-I intended it for me.” Your voice nearly break as your heart pounds in your ears.

He stares you down and the steel in his voice is no less sharp when he deigns to speak.

“ _You_ would do well to _explain_ yourself.”

You avert your eyes while you swallow down your nerves. Of two evils, right now, telling him is the lesser.

“I-I need it,” you stammer and close your eyes, “to preserve my monthly blood.”

Once it’s out, your secret seems to topple out your mouth in a rush of an explanation.

“I always carry some upon my person folded in a scrap of paper, but you had my dress burned and what I had was burned with it. It wasn’t a problem until you told me I was to stay. There are no shrubs of queen Anne’s lace within your gardens and I saw no other option but to go out to find some. I’m sorry, Sir.”

He watches you closely, silent and without emotion. Then he slowly blinks and when he opens his eyes, his gaze has shifted. He is still looking at you, but with another focal point. You can’t right explain it, but for a moment he seems to be looking right through you. Then he blinks again and you meet his gray gaze.

The coldness has gone, but instead his eyes burns with annoyance, conveying his displeasure as clear as day.

“That does not explain _why_ you would go behind my back.”

You swallow nervously.

 “In England, women are still burned for witchcraft,” you answer in a quiet voice.

_I did not trust you._

His jaw clenches.

“These tings happens, yes, in rural countryside where resentment or pure spite is allowed to stew and grow into something ugly, where power is corrupt and justice sits within the grasp of people who will do whatever it takes to remain in control. It is the _epitome_ of what we strive to eradicate. 

The Colonial rite seeks order, and purpose, and direction; for this country and it’s people both. To reach that goal, we need knowledge and justice and science. Religious convictions and superstition has no place within our ranks.”

You cringe under his chiding, seeing the faults in your own reasoning. The importance of secrecy in this matter has been lodged in your marrow ever since you swore to keep it safe. Not just for you, but for your nursemaid, and for all the other women she told; all the slaves who would not birth children into slavery. The land-owners would be furious if the truth came out.

But you see the fault you’ve made. Kenway does not believe in slavery. He is not ruled by religion, but by reason. You should have known to trust him.

He has paused the scolding, regarding you with thunder in his eyes.

“You are an initiate in our order. As long as you remain true to our cause, I will do what is in my power to keep you safe. But heed my words; this sort of _behavior_ , this willful _deception_ I will not tolerate again _._ Do I make myself _clear_?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He turns his back at you, walks over to the window and fetches a chair set by the wall.

“Now, I will have to go and clean up the mess you’ve made. You may _sit_ here and wait for my return.”

You mutely comply, sit down on the straight-backed chair and cringe under his ire.

“Do not even think of moving,” he says, “I will know if you have.”

Then he walks out the door and closes it sharply behind him. You are left to berate yourself for your stupidity, to stew in trepidation as the large clock counts the passing seconds.  You feel queasy, your hands are clammy and cold, clenched hard in your lap.

You wonder what’s in store for you when he returns. Will you be punished for your disobedience? Will you be demoted? Will he send you away? Expel you from the order? Where would you go if he does? You hope he’ll let you stay, clinging desperately to the implication of a future within the order with the word ‘again’. And if you are allowed to stay…Would you ever be able to redeem yourself? Will he ever look at you with respect again?

Your head is swimming with questions. The sun has moved, shining down your neck leaving you uncomfortably warm, but you do not move. Your inner turmoil overshadows the unease, almost surpasses the steady pounding of pain in your arm too as your mind hits another troubling realization.

How will Shay react? You sag against the chair, pressing the heel of your palms into your eyes.

The Grand Master’s opinion means the world to him. You don’t even want to begin to consider what he’d do if he was forced to choose between you and the order.

Your eyes burn treacherously behind closed lids. Then voices down the hall and footsteps approaching outside the door rescues you from emotional meltdown. Straightening, you pull yourself together schooling your face into demure and somber lines.

The office door opens and master Kenway returns with Thomas Hickey and another of the orders high ranked officers, William Johnson. Hickey halts to your left, while Johnson and the Grand Master walks over to his desk. Master Kenway regards you in passing, a stern gaze warning you to stay silent before he lifts his hand and places a withered flower atop his desk.

“Johnson, I would ask you to identify this plant, if you please,” he says.

“Ah, of course master Kenway.” He picks up the frond, holds it up to the light, studying it closely.

“This is a mature example of Daucus Carota, Grand Master, more commonly known as Queen Ann’s lace,” he says satisfied and looks expectantly at master Kenway.

The grand master remains indifferent and poised.

“Queen Anne’s lace,” the Grand master says.

“Yes, Grand Master.”

“Not hemlock? Are you sure?”

“Positive. Although it resembles hemlock, the two are easily distinguishable; queen Ann’s lace has little hairs along the stems, see here…” He holds the stem up to the light again, pointing out the fine hairs you know are there. Hickey stretches his neck, the better to see.

“… while poison hemlock has purple splotches along the stem.” He smiles warmly, unknowing of what his judgement means to you. The grand Master takes the flower, studies it, then hands it to Hickey. Johnson smiles, then looks to remember something.

“Did you know Hippocrates described the use of this plant more than two thousand years ago?” he says musingly. “An oral contraceptive, I believe.” He looks complacently at the Grand Master. At your side, Hickey has frozen.

“Thank you, Johnson,” master Kenway says. Thomas flicks his eyes towards master Kenway, and then his gaze settles on you. You cringe at the light of amusement blooming there with his budding comprehension, while Grand Master Kenway thanks an unsuspecting Johnson for his aid while leading him to the exit, then closes the doors behind him when he leaves.

When he is gone, Kenway strides across the floor gravely, then comes to a halt in front of you. You watch him warily as he picks the folded piece of paper from his pocket, meticulously unfolds it, then pinches a small amount of seeds between two fingers. Unease sits in your gut as he wordlessly releases the seeds into your awaiting hand. You close your eyes and put the seeds into your mouth, crush them thoroughly between your teeth before you swallow.

Then the Grand Master turns his gaze to Hickey.

“I think it is safe to conclude, Hickey; although her conduct was out of line, she is not the traitor we seek.”

Thomas Hickey is repressing a humored smile.

“Aye, sir.”

“You may go and catch some sleep Hickey.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Thomas shoots you a twinkling gaze as he turns to leave.

“And Hickey…” The grand master looks at him sternly as Thomas pauses with a hand on the doorknob.

“This incident stay within this office.”

He shoots a look across his shoulder, his demeanor turning straight and serious as he finds the grand masters gaze.

“Aye, Grand Master.”

Then he leaves you two alone.

“I’m sorry master Kenway.”

The grand master stands looking at the door where Hickey has just left. He no longer exudes the ire you sensed before, but his demeanor remains strict and severe as he folds his hands behind his back.

“After the ambush yesterday, we suspect a traitor within our ranks,” he says and flicks a gaze your way. “Although we concluded you were an unlikely candidate, your position would make you a serious threat to our organization. We could not afford not to consider it.”

Your relationship with Shay gives you access to the grand master, to the inner sanctum of the rite. While Shay strictly keeps from discussing his undertakings within the order with you, you can see how others might think he does.

You feel no less uneasy than before, wondering as to where this conversation is headed. If he comes to consider you a liability to his interests, he might demand that Shay severs his ties with you, might still demote you or send you away. The grand master rests his eyes on you, pensive and considerate.

“When Hickey caught you acting against orders, he reacted accordingly. I don’t think you appreciate the thin sheet of ice you walked across today, Miss Devon. Fortunately for you, we were able to clear this farce, before it got out of hand. That being said, you are not all to blame. I have kept certain information from you, in order not to cause unnecessary distress. However, with your little _spectacle_ I guess you are better off knowing.”

He pauses in front of you, regarding you with a stoic gaze. Shameful you avert your eyes and he pauses until you lift your gaze again.

“As a member of our order, even if you’re just an initiate, your relationship with Shay puts a price on your head. You are considered fair game, and because Shay is who he is; to our enemies, you are a valuable target.”

Your eyes widen in surprise and disconcerted realization.

“Up until now, your relationship was easily concealed; Shay has made sure never to expose it outside our society and your low rank has made you inconspicuous enough to not raise attention amongst our enemies. Yesterday when you were caught up in that ambush with me; that changed. They are bound to have noticed you and whatever their conclusions, you have turned target.”

“Oh.” A sudden ripple of fear slithers down your spine.

“Therefore, you are withdrawn from duty until we get a clear picture of what happened. Until then, you will stay under my roof and under the order’s protection. If you are to venture more than ten yards from the house, you will have someone join you, but for now you will stay here, with me.”

Your heartbeat sounds loud in your own ears. The work you do might be unimpressive, looking after the community and the school, gathering intel from the whispers that he men will never hear, but it means the world to you. It’s something you excel at, something that brings light to your day. You don’t want to be kept away from it. If the investigation leads to nothing, if they’re not able to unravel what happened; will you be allowed back into the field?

The grand master reads your hesitancy as trepidation. 

“Within this house, you are safe, Miss Devon,” he reassures, but you’re more concerned with how to redeem your mistake, desperate to rescue your position and reclaim your province.

So when he suggests giving you a task for the day to fill your time, you cannot decline. Gratefully you accept, ignoring the persistent hum of pain in your arm and the general discomfort that has gradually snuck up on you.

He gives you a text he wants you to copy, an invitation to a formal dinner a couple of weeks away. It’s a mundane task and you are sure he has others to fulfil such tasks, but you are adamant to be of service and you really do not mind. It’s your left arm that has been injured and writing is well within your ability.

There is already another work station prepared at a large conference table set at the other side of the room; a set of quill, ink and a stack of fresh paper laying ready for you since this morning. You set down to the task, concentrate on producing an elegantly flowing script and try not to think of much else.

Yates appears with another batch of correspondence, disappears and then returns again to wait in attendance for the grandmaster’s requests.

You settle down, working focused and efficiently, adamant to redeem some of this morning’s indiscretion and trying your best to ignore the growing throb of pain in your arm. You want to please Master Kenway, however as time ticks by, it’s taking more and more of you to stay focused.

The sleeve of your dress is a little too tight, and with the added thickness of the dressing underneath it’s irritating the wound. An extra insistent throb of pain leaves a jagged line and a small blotch of ink on the paper in front of you. Annoyed with yourself, you put the quill down. Looking at the letter, you know it’s irredeemable. You fold it in half and put it aside, then carefully pull at the sleeve of your gown to ease the discomfort. All it does is upset the injury and you draw a short breath through gritted teeth.

“Is everything all right, Miss Devon?”

Across the room, the grand master has turned his attention to you.

“It’s just a little painful, Sir.” You feel a little too warm too, but account that to the sun shining through the windows and the fire going in the fireplace.

“You’re hurting?” he says severely.

“It comes with the territory of getting injured,” you jest meekly. “I will be all right, sir.”

He ignores your reassurance, puts his quill down and comes over. You’re loathe to disturb him, should have known not to make a fuss and draw attention to yourself, but it’s too late now.

Halting by your side, he picks up your injured arm. The sleeve tightens sharply at the motion, and your skin ignites with searing pain.

“Good lord, girl!” The back of his hand against your forehead feels cool and pleasant as it momentarily touches your skin. “Yates, give us a hand.”

You feel queasy and suddenly a little light-headed. The room is too warm and your corset too tight. Grand Master Kenway grabs your shoulder steadying you as you clench your eyes shut.

Yates appears while Grand Master Kenway flicks a knife from his side. On his instruction, Yates pries the tight sleeve from the dressing underneath while Kenway slides the blade flatly inbetween, then severs the seam in a swift motion.

Blood rushes back into your flesh and this time you do faint with the sheer agony that follows.

\---

A sharp smell stings your nose. Instinct rips you back into consciousness with reflex withdrawal from the sharp odor.

“There now, just relax.”

You feel awful. Pain sits like a small fire on your arm and there seems to be no strength left in your body. You’re on the floor, propped up against the grand master who is kneeling behind your back. Yates is corking a small flask, regarding you while he puts it down on the table. A second of comprehending what just happened and then you’re struggling to get up. The grand master promptly stops you.

“Don’t trouble yourself Miss Devon.”

Then he promptly pulls your weight into his arms and gets to his feet.

“There’s no need, sir. I can walk,” you protest.

“You will not,” he says, ignoring your unease and stares straight ahead as he carries you out of the office. Yates holds the door, closes it behind you then strides a pace in front down the hall.

“Have the carriage sent for Doctor Barton, Yates.” He does not even sound troubled by your weight.

Yates gives him a short nod as you come out on the stairwell’s second landing. He calls a footman to your aid then disappears downstairs. You’re mortified at the figure you’re making and the trouble you cause both to the grand master and to his household.

“Please, sir; let me walk.”

He considers you then, while the footman strides ahead to get the door leading into the bedroom wing. Where ire burned but a couple of hours ago, calm, sharp assessment now meets your fretful gaze.

“You’re not well,” he says. “I know relying on the aid of others does not sit well with you Miss Devon, but right now that is what you will do. You have strained yourself quite enough already.”

Your heart despairs. What upsets you the most is that he is right. You do feel terrible; weak, lightheaded and in pain. Every time he turns a corner, your head spins and you don’t really know if you’d be able to walk if he let you. Your throat grows tight with emotion.

The footman is holding the door to Shay’s room and the grand master goes straight to your bed then carefully sets you down. You swallow around the tight lump and quietly thank him, feeling as though you’re failing him.

You draw a troubled breath and close your eyes. Sitting upright, you are starting to feel worse than before. The light-headedness returns and your gut starts to churn. The grand master grabs your shoulder as a plethora of footsteps arrive at your door.

Yates has returned, with a whole army of servants and your room is turning very crowded. 

“I want her out of her stays promptly, or I fear she will pass out on us again,” the grand master says.

“Yes, sir,” Yates replies, then throws a glance at the maids. One of them comes running and the grand master steps to the side as the girl starts unpinning your gown.

“I don’t think we can rely on her to stand,” Yates says.

“No, I don’t trust her on her feet right now,” the grand master says quietly.

The maid soon has the fastenings undone and starts prying the sleeves of your bodice from your shoulders. You groan as the fabric brushes over the dressing with a bright flare of protest in your flesh. A sudden bout of dizziness overcomes you. A shuffle of hurried movement and you’re grabbed before you topple over.

Your heart is pounding in your chest and you feel so _weak._ A quiet whimper wrecks your throat. The grand master secures a firm grip on your shoulder then purposefully grasps the base of your neck, drawing you close to him.

“Cut the lazing, Yates,” he says. You clench your eyes shut, breathing in the scent of his robes, of warm wool and some kind of fragrant soap that he uses. The fingers cupping your neck are warm against your skin, too warm for your comfort, but you are in no shape to tell him.

The tightness of your stays abates with sharp snaps as Yates cuts through the lazing. Your hands are freed of the sleeves, quickly and carefully. You sag, sighing shakily in relief as the grand master shifts your weight and lifts you into his arms. The rest of your gown comes off leaving you in the comfort of your loose, airy shift.

It’s a relief. Hazily, you register a bustle of activity, several feet shifting on the floor moving furniture, fluffing pillows and turning down the bed.  

Then the grand master lays you down. You are braced against a plethora of soft down cushions, then tucked under the soft sheets. It’s like sinking into a embrace and your heart slows.

The bed hangings are drawn, muffling the sound of the continuing activity and shading you from the light. You open your eyes finding Yates as he flicks a watch from his pocket then clutches your wrist in a tight grip, his fingers digging into your skin. You can feel your own heartrate within the tight grip. When he lets you go, he lays your hand down upon the duvet gently before stepping away and addressing the grand master in a muffled voice.

“She’s still a little high, but at least the beat has gained some strength,” he says. “The fever however, is more disconcerting.”

The grand master hums in response.

“I should have sent her straight back to bed this morning.” He lifts his gaze from you, finding Yates instead.  

“Have someone fetch the correspondence, Yates. I will stay with her until the doctor arrives.”

“Of course, sir.”

Yates leaves and the bustle of activity dies down.

You’ve just managed to set his whole house on end, all because of a shallow _cut._ You’re upset, for causing all this fuss, for the mess you made this morning, for not succeeding even in the easy task of writing some letters for him. Now, you’re on the verge of tears, desperately holding back because the last thing you need is for him to see you cry. You swallow around the tight lump in your throat.

The Grand Master steps quietly to the side of your bed. His hand comes up to rests against your forehead. His skin feels cool and comforting when the touch skims over your brow and your temple before his palm lies flat against your cheek.

“You are running a slight fever,” he says gently. “You should try to get some rest.”

The lump in your throat grows thick and panful with the softness in his voice. Your eyes burn treacherously and your breathing chokes with emotion. You close your eyes, hoping that he’ll retreat, that you’ll be left in peace to despair your failure, but as moisture gathers under your lids, the grand master only stays.

His thumb stokes soothingly over your cheek, and you draw a ragged breath. Then a large tear tumbles down your cheek.

“Shh,” he says. “There is no need to fret, Miss Devon. We’ll take care of you.”

That doesn’t help your distress. Your breath hitches in a sniff and another heavy tear rolls down your other cheek.

The bed dips as the grand master takes a seat by your side.

“Tell me what the matter is, Miss Devon,” he says quietly.

“I made a mess of things today, sir. Please give me a chance to make amends.”

He sighs, taking your good hand between the both of his.

“The damage done is not beyond repair, my dear,” he says quietly. “You will have plenty of opportunity to redeem yourself once you have recovered.”

The two of you are alone and his voice is but a soft murmur. A warm tear tumbles heavily down your cheek. He lifts a hand and catches it, dries it off with his bare fingers. His eyes are warm when you find his gaze.

“In the meantime, I require your obedience in one request.”

He regards you calmly and severe.

“Whatever you ask, grand master,” you say fervent, your voice shaking with emotion.

“Settle down,” he says quietly, “rest,” he lifts a hand and strokes your temple, “and allow me to take care of you.”

It’s not what you expected and you feel as if he’s tricked you. Nevertheless, you gave your promise. Uneasily you relent, giving him a reluctant nod. He rests his gaze on you, steady, calm and sure.

“You are one of my flock, Miss Devon, taking care of you is not a burden, it’s my responsibility.” He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, then gently lays it down and gets to his feet. A quiet calm blooms from his words, spreads through you with a heavy fatigue. Your skin burns with fever and your eyelids droop.

The grand master regards you benevolently.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “I will be here when you wake.”

It’s an order you finally dare to follow.


End file.
